Dark Am I
by GilGal
Summary: AU. Sherlock and Abigail tentatively begin. Will they face the challenges of life together or will they be pulled apart by them? Second Tale in my AU, continuation of "Joy Bringer". Rating for sexy times and perhaps a bit of coarse language.
1. Lilly Among Thorns

**A/N: This is second tale in the universe I've been writing, so if you want to know what is happening here, read 'Joy Bringer' first. Or if you enjoy the confusion, then have at it. I always liked a bit of mystery myself. ;)**

**This is rated MA, so read responsibly. And enjoy!**

* * *

**~Lilly Among Thorns~**

* * *

Today, as with most mornings, Abby awoke to the sensation of lips pressed against her heated flesh.

The first time, he had muttered "Experiment," not bothering to pause long enough to explain more than that, before retuning his face to delve into her sex. She couldn't protest much beyond that, or be bothered to think, for that matter. It only took a few minutes of his tongue slipping inside her then up to her sensitive bud before she fell apart, shaking beneath his self-satisfied expression, while he licked his lips. She had blinked hazily, still drowsy and now weak-limbed, trying to force her eyes to focus on her… boyfriend? Partner? Lover? Sherlock Holmes. "What was that?" she had croaked, voice unused to speaking so early. He had kissed her in earnest then, his lips pressing firmly to her own and stealing her breath away.

When he seemed more content (for a moment at least), he deigned to answer. "I have a hypothesis that the natural lubricant your body produces has subtle differences in flavor according to the time of day. I can taste it," he trailed off and proceeded to thoroughly snog her breathless. He had gripped his own hard length before turning his attention to her breasts while simultaneously slipping inside her. Abby, feeling overwhelmed enough to climax again in a matter of minutes, could only gasp and moan his name.

She loved his scientific mind quite a bit more at this moment, as she began to benefit heavily from his increased interest in human sexual arousal and stimulation. '_Let the studies continue'_, she thought wryly, in a corner of her brain that considered itself a sex goddess. It was, admittedly, a rather small corner.

The next morning he had claimed he believed the alterations (noticeable only to his refined palate) to be due to fluctuating hormone levels as evidenced in her moods, perhaps stimulated by dreams. She decided on that particular morning that his dedication to the scientific method was positively inspirational. The morning after that he had claimed it was due to her diet. He had stopped offering explanations on any subsequent encounters (not that she minded) but she understood that, while yes, he was curious about the biology of it; his deeper intentions were purely desire. It made him feel needy and exposed so Abby didn't press the issue but came to enjoy the unique alarm clock, even if at times, he left her feeling completely consumed.

Oh, not that he wasn't a generous lover, quite the contrary in fact; she had had to absolutely _insist_ she be allowed to use her own mouth on him (claiming it in the name of science and her education, to which he had eventually caved). It was hard for Abby to even put her finger on exactly what about Sherlock as a lover that would leave her feeling almost _besieged_. No, it was the way he could use his incredible brain, which was far more brilliant than everyone even realized, to focus all of his formidable mental capacities at one thing: devouring her. He seemed, in those heated moments shared between the lovers, to find it was not enough to breathe his own breath, but he must inhale what she'd exhaled, that he must find and explore every sensitive spot, know every fantasy, have it _all _and be all to her.

It was rather bewitching.

So, upon this chilly November morning, Abigail awoke, threading her fingers through Sherlock's hair and groaning her appreciation for his absolutely _brilliant_ work (could she call it artistry?). This time, however, he was slow, languid even, almost seemingly disinterested, had she not seen the hungry gleam roaring in his eyes. They took in her pretty pink quim as a thirsty man drinks water, juxtaposed by fingers teasing and playing. Sherlock then allowed his head to dip and lick and suck at her, as though there were nothing else he would ever be doing. It almost gave Abigail pause, or would have, had she been able to think clearly at all. After she fell apart, he rolled over, taking a condom from the bedside table and availed himself of it, still, slowly, as she watched and he watched her watching him. Heated words were exchanged in silence as they burned and took in the sight of one another. Coming back to herself, Abby sat up, pushing him backwards, and rolled herself on top of him, slipping onto (in her opinion at least) the most delightful prick in existence.

It was a contented sigh that escaped her lips at the filling contact, trying to balance and focus on the task but it was rather hard when her post-climactic floppy limbs were only half listening to her instructions. She gripped his hands, using his strength to support herself while she found a rhythm. Once they could begin in earnest, his hands gripped at her waist, pulling her up and down easily. Something caught her attention, which was the digital clock on the dresser she faced. It read 3:13, and as it was dark out still, the only light in the room was from streetlamps filtering into the window, she was surprised.

"Sher—lock—" she hiccupped as he touched her cervix for a second. His thickness was _rather_ deep this way. His eyes were roaming over her body, taking in every sight, action, but raised to hers in question.

"Why are we making love in the middle of the night?" she continued, each word breathy as she slowly slid over him, running her hands over his abdomen and chest.

"It isn't the middle of the night," he said, annoying and correct, if only technically. His statement was punctuated by a groan as she dropped back down abruptly, responding to his frustrating answer. They worked at one another for a moment again, before—

"Oh God—" she moaned as she added a little twist on her way down, still trying to talk but too caught up in it all to care properly. He raised his knees slightly and then pumped his hips into her, short circuiting her brain for a few minutes, making her forget what she had been saying. It was several more minutes until she could think again and by that time they had moved into another position after yet another orgasm had rocked her and she was too weak from sleep and pleasure to go on rising and falling over him.

With her knees bent up high, he worked them both deftly, but she could see the clock again, glowing the time over their moving shapes. "Why did you wake me up early today?" she wondered, running the words together in hopes of getting them all out before she lost focus.

He kissed her deeply then, and sped up, so she let him, knowing that he would talk after. It wasn't long behind that, and he climaxed, sighing and convulsing, eyes wide in pleasure and she felt delighted all over again to have him here in her bed.

"I couldn't wait until day light," he finally said, head resting in the crook of her neck, his breath making her shiver happily. "I… missed you." He sounded almost ashamed.

She wrapped her arms around him. "I don't mind. I like how you wake me." Kissing his head through his hair, she continued, "I was dreaming about you, I think." Abby pondered for a moment, trying to piece together the fragments in her mind.

"Was it perhaps an erotic dream?" he questioned shifting, pulling out of her carefully as strength returned. A pondering humming sound arose from her chest, as he disposed of the used condom in the en suite. Abby watched Sherlock walk back to the bed, admiring his form, smiling slightly. "I think it was a more adult dream, yes," she admitted, looking over at him, feeling the need for sleep beginning to pull at her. His arms slipped around her waist, tugging her close, comfortable next to one another.

"I could tell," he whispered into her hair, "you were moaning… and… I could smell you." Abigail pulled back her head. "Smell me? What do you mean?" His gaze met hers for an intense moment before responding, perhaps hesitantly, "I smelled the changes in your body chemistry indicating you were ready for copulation." Blinking slowly, Abby took in his admission. "It woke me, actually."

"You smelled my body becoming… aroused?"

He nodded and kissed her again, settling back into their previous, rather comfortable, position. "Wow," was all she could say. Closing her eyes, ready to let sleep grip her again, and the room was silent for a few moments. "What were you dreaming?" he wanted to know, eyes closed. She leaned forward and kissed his chest, words slurring together a bit as she fell back asleep. "Can't remember; too bad. Sounds like it was fun."

* * *

**A/N: of course I don't own these timeless characters, but I do mine and this plot. All for fun! What I also don't own is the title, which I stole from the Last Bison song, which I was listening to when I had the idea for this story and chapter titles. Those are from the Song of Solomon, but I don't think there's a need to use a disclaimer in that case. Mostly just an interesting fact. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed and there will be more to come soonly. :) -Gal**


	2. A Bundle of Myrrh

**A Bundle of Myrrh **

* * *

After watching Abigail fall back asleep, Sherlock had stolen away silently back upstairs. An experiment he was working on with a new sample of bacteria was nearing completion and he was excited to see the results. Leaning over his microscope on the scarred kitchen table, he peered and studied, making notes in his mind.

His phone buzzed again and again beside him, but he did not stir to check it after the first time. He did not notice the gradual lightening outside or the sounds of John obviously waking above him, but focused his attentions on the slide before his eyes.

It felt like only moments, until he heard John's voice in the room. Sherlock glanced at the clock, realizing more than an hour had passed since he had sat down.

"So Sherlock, why did I get a call from Mycroft?" John looked suspiciously at his flatmate. It was six in the morning, and John looked mildly grumpy.

"As I have been ignoring him, I'm sure he has resorted to contacting you. Some case or other. Not interested, couldn't possibly. Too much on at the moment."

Though Sherlock didn't look up to see it, John rolled his eyes at that."We've got nothing on! And—" here he broke off, dropping his voice a bit. "Sherlock. The fridge is empty. Rent will be due soon. Have you looked at your bank account? We _need_ a case."

"I'll not lower my standards and this case is wholly uninteresting. It's beneath me."

John bristled. "Did you hear me? We NEED the case! What other way do you suppose we'll be making a few quid?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh John, how I envy you. What it must be like in that funny little head of yours."

Good thing John was not in arm's reach of Sherlock, or the consulting detective would have had a black eye. "You sodding idiot! If you like eating and living at Baker Street then we're taking the case! Didn't you HEAR how much Mycroft said these people are willing to pay? God, we could live off this case for a year! Just think about that!" Just was nearly going ballistic, red faced and ever practical. Calming himself, he took another tactic. "Sherlock, think about it. If you take this case, which you say will be so easy to solve, then won't you have more time for research and cases you find interesting? The funds from this will set you bloody well up for a long time." John looked around the kitchen, feeling that, for once, he may have one an argument with his recalcitrant flatmate.

The consulting detective hated moments like this, when his high flying idealism crashed and burned in the light of petty concepts such as the need for _money_. Particularly since this case would take him far away from Abby and his _research_ with her body. His interest was still quite piqued in that area and had no desire to take a traveling case, no matter the importance of the client.

Sherlock seemed to consider the idea, knowing John could get very worked up about funds.

John, too tired for arguing this early, busied himself in making tea. Several slamming sounds could be heard around the kitchen as he did so. Sherlock could tell he had already told Mycroft they would take the case, but it wasn't John who would solve it, now was it?

* * *

Mycroft looked at ease, as usual, beneath his mask of austere calm, seated in a chair in the 221B sitting room. He had arrived minutes after the conversation between the flatmates, much to Sherlock's displeasure. He attempted to hand a file to Sherlock, which his brother opted not to reach for, but remained holding his cup of tea. He might need to take the case, but he certainly wouldn't let his brother know that (though the spying git most likely already knew), and he would not feign interest in what would soon prove to be rather dull.

"Really, Sherlock, I would think with Ms. Hart's upcoming paperwork you would be eager to owe me a favor. One little case, I'm sure you'll have it solved in a matter of hours."

Confused but remaining a mask of impassivity, Sherlock looked steadily at his brother, reading him to gain understanding. Paperwork? Oh, of course, it must be immigration paperwork. Would Mycroft allow Abigail to be deigned extension of her stay in the country if he refused? Abby hadn't discussed anything of the matter with him, but he rapidly deduced that her set time of stay was coming to a close. Unease filled Sherlock in the moment, as he wondered why she refrained from discussing it. Did she want to leave? He knew she missed her family, but why wouldn't she at least mention what she was facing and contemplating?

He thought all this in a matter of seconds. Coming to a conclusion, he said in a bored tone, "John do take the file from Mycroft," gesturing disinterestedly as he did. Oh how Sherlock loathed Mycroft. John eagerly took the papers and began to flip through them.

Caring did not seem to be an advantage at this moment. Sherlock felt weak and exposed, but hid it. Only the rigid line of his back showed his distress.

"We'll be ready to leave within the hour."

"Good. Now perhaps I've been wrong all these years. Caring does seem to have its advantages." Sherlock thought that the look in Mycroft's eyes was decidedly an evil gleam, though to be fair, John thought it was touching that the older man showed his concern for his younger brother. In his own way.

Glaring, Sherlock stalked from the room.

* * *

Abigail hadn't had a moment to sit all day but had been running from the moment she awoke late. This was unusual, but she supposed Sherlock had been tired from the midnight tryst and she thought no more of it. There was no time for running upstairs to the B apartment to bid her boys, as she fondly called them, farewell, only rushing quickly to get out the door. Once she had arrived to work, Abby found she had two very heavy assignments today, both very sick men who needed constant monitoring and medication. There was barely any time to chart, but finally, around three in the afternoon things calmed down enough for her to have a short lunch break. While cramming a sandwich in her ravenous mouth, she checked her phone.

_Gone to Amsterdam on a case for Mycroft. –SH_

This explained the quiet in the building she hadn't had time to analyze this morning. It wasn't completely unusual for Sherlock to leave her bed in the middle of the night, if an idea struck him for an experiment. It hadn't seemed too odd to her that he was absent when she awoke, but now she realized that he was not merely upstairs, as she had assumed, but was actually gone, probably from the country at that point. It certainly had broken his chain of habit for the activities he liked to use to awaken her. She squirmed a bit at the thought and made herself focus on the text she had been staring at blankly. Abby pondered this for a moment; then imagined her empty flat. She quickly sent a reply then started a new message to Molly.

_Thanks for letting me know. I'll miss you. Know how long you'll be gone? –AH _

He wasn't that great at regular relationship stuff like checking in and communicating in general. She was thankful for his effort at least.

_Molly, would you like to have dinner with me tonight? Girls night! –AH_

Sherlock didn't respond, but Molly did.

_Oh I'd love to, but I actually have a date with Greg. C: Tomorrow?-MH_

_Oh of course. Have fun! I'm on break, are you working too? –AH_

_Oh we will. I'm certain of it! C; I'm up to my eyes in paperwork down here, yes. –MH_

_Yes, tomorrow we'll go out for girly fun. And I want to hear every dirty detail about your date! –AH_

Molly didn't respond to that, but Abigail didn't expect her to, really. It made Abby happy to learn how Molly had finally found someone who could love her properly and treat her well. Sherlock could be a bit of an arse, she knew, but they worked well together. But Molly deserved someone who would worship her, not take advantage of her sweet, generous nature. From what Abigail had heard from Molly, it seemed Greg had no problem treating her like a princess.

She had just finished her sandwich and was about to continue with some broccoli when she heard the sound of a code being called through the overhead speakers. Swearing, she stood, gulping some water to clean her mouth and ran once more into the fray.

* * *

Still nothing from Sherlock.

John had texted, letting her know they had arrived in Amsterdam and were on their case. He had hinted that they were staying somewhere posh and working for important people, but said he couldn't really divulge anything truly relevant.

Abigail knew that if Sherlock was on a case he wouldn't want unnecessary distractions, but some things she was struggling to keep to herself.

_Remembered my dream. We were making love. You were wearing your Belstaff, just that. Let's try it soon. –AH_

He hadn't ever responded to her earlier text, so she didn't know what to expect. It was walking a fine line to communicate matters of the heart, or rather, the body, to Sherlock. Too clingy and he would begin to feel trapped. Abigail was genuinely trying to give him the space she knew he required for thinking, to be the incredible consulting detective he was but this abrupt shift in the norm was catching her by surprise.

_'Don't be stupid_,' she chided herself, '_you've only been sleeping together a couple of months'_. But it wasn't just a physical relationship, and she knew it. He had opened his heart to her, when they were alone, he had exposed the parts of himself he was loath to do with anyone else. Sherlock was maddeningly simple and a mystery all at once. They were… something more than friends, committed monogamous lovers. Partners? She didn't know what to call the enigmatic man. She had wanted to ask but something had made her hold her silence, so she had. She wouldn't risk calling him her boyfriend. The term and Sherlock just didn't fit in the same room, let alone attached to him.

Sighing, she shook off her thoughts as she unlocked her door, trying to decide how to spend her abruptly open evening.

A thought, rather, a _memory_, rose to her mind as she set down her bag and stripped off her scrubs, walking to the shower. Recalling how Sherlock had broken into her flat to interrogate her while in the bath, she smiled and rolled her eyes. He could be such a ridiculous man. This line of thinking was causing an ache to develop in her chest that was rather painful. As she stood beneath the spray, she analyzed the sensation, and realization struck her.

_I'm _longing_ for him,' _shethought, feared_. 'I can't believe it. Am I pathetic?' _she wondered. The ache was familiar and painful and it was how she had felt every day since she dreamed of his end all those months ago.

As she got out from the shower, Abigail decided it was a good night to video chat with her family. Frightened at what she realized, how much she had come to care for the brilliant madman, she wondered if it wasn't a very good idea they would have some time apart.

She looked at her phone, a text she had typed but not yet sent to Sherlock, unsure if she should. Quickly erasing every letter, she set it down, relieved, feeling as though she had dodged a bullet.

It had said: _God I miss having you in my mouth and between my legs. Your tongue is so amazing. Miss you. –AH_

* * *

"Mama, Daddy, it's so good to see y'all!" Talking with her family certainly made her slight southern drawl, which had faded considerably from her year in London, return in full force.

"Daddy, you home for lunch?" She asked, wide eyes soaking in her beloved family.

"You know it, Baby girl! I'm a creature of habit! Been coming home for lunch the last twenty six years and I have no intention of stopping now!" He chuckled, running his hand through his graying hair. Abby smiled, still amazed at the time difference which made the sun blaze behind them, while the sun had already set where she was.

"Abby, baby, tell me 'bout how you're doing?"

"Oh Mama, I had a terrible day. We had a code and it wasn't pretty. I'm beat. Too tired even for dinner."

Her mother looked nonplussed. "Now, Abby, you need to keep your strength up. You'd best eat before bed." She rolled her eyes but actually relished the way her mama spoke, with care and concern.

"OK mom!" She laughed, and listened while the older couple caught her up on their lives and that of their neighbors.

"Now tell me, Baby Girl, are we going to get to see you in the flesh for Christmas?"

"Daddy, I don't know. I'm still thinking it over. But I'll let you know as soon as I do, ok?"

She talked with bother parents for about 30 minutes before her dad had to go back to work, so Abby decided to call it a night too. Telling them both that she loved and missed them, they all promised to talk again soon.

As Abby closed her laptop, she sighed, suddenly in a dark, empty flat in a country far away from her home. She was painstakingly aware of how alone she was.

Abby had just started to drift off about an hour later, opting to go to bed early in her complete exhaustion, when her mobile rang.

Not bothering to turn on her bedside light, she answered the phone.

"Hello?"

What she heard next would change the course of her life.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry I've taken so long. Of course with Christmas and New Years I was rather slow in writing. Then after only returning to writing for a day or so I got word of a death in the family, so there were arrangements and traveling across the country for the funeral. Well, I'm home again and feeling up for writing a bit, so here goes. Hope you find enjoyment in what I enjoyed writing. Enjoyed and lamented over, really, I think that's the way it goes. :)**

**-Gal**


	3. Catch Us The Foxes

**A/N: Here's the long-awaited (haha) chapter resolving some suspense and adding more. Hope you've been able to handle the tension. I hope you can read my sarcasm here. ;)**

* * *

**Catch Us the Foxes**

* * *

Sherlock had been forcing thoughts of Abigail deep into locked rooms within his mind all day. She, in truth, had her own wing in his humbly entitled _mind palace_, each space dedicated to various interesting and inane facts, responses, scents, sounds and desires she had expressed. He tried not to wonder if she was tired, if her eyes were shining as she comforted her patients, if she was thinking of him in return. It was sentiment at its worst, most distracting and damnable. He was angry with himself and in a rage with everyone around him for existing today. Sherlock considered how easily he had been manipulated by his brother, though perhaps Mycroft would not have seen it that way. He had become weak. The idea repelled him.

While they investigated the crime scene in an extravagant home and questioned suspects, Sherlock was frustrated and a bit more cruel than usual. The local police force was shocked at his abruptly rude deductions, in Dutch no less, leaving John a bit in the dark. It wasn't that he couldn't understand the language, no his conversational Dutch was passably adequate, if a bit rusty, but rather the reason behind them left him confused.

When John had suggested that Sherlock back off a bit, he had turned that laser pointer of deduction on his flatmate in an uncharacteristic and previously unexplored level of brutality.

John had proceeded to tell him to piss off and walked a short distance away as people milled about the indoor crime scene. It was almost nine in the evening local time, and John was feeling angry enough to hail a cab back to the hotel, without Sherlock. While he considered this idea, his phone buzzed, indicating an incoming call.

He saw it was Abigail and let it ring through. Considering how much of an absolute _knob_ his flatmate was being, he wondered if a good talk to Abby would help. Hell, perhaps he missed her. Who could tell with Sherlock? John answered.

"Hello Abs. What's up?" He tried to keep the irritated tone out of his voice for her sake. She didn't deserve it, after all.

"John, I need to speak with Sherlock. Please. He won't answer."

"Well, he's being quite an arse at the moment. I'll see if I can get him." John walked closer to the consulting detective, getting his attention.

"Abigail," he said by way of explanation, as he extended his arm toward the genius. Sherlock didn't raise his eyes from the chair he was inspecting. It looked like nothing was there to John, but he wasn't the world's only consulting detective _arse_, either. Sherlock said nothing and did not move other than to pull out his magnifying glass.

John wiggled the phone again, "come on, she says it's important."

"I am working. I cannot afford distractions." John's eyes went wide. Surely Abby could hear all this. His hand snapped over the receiver in hopes of protecting her from the malice that apparently knew no bounds.

"Don't be a knob to your bloody girlfriend, mate!" He hissed, eyes wide. Sherlock remained stoic, although his lips had begun to press together in a thin line. John pressed the phone to his ear, stepping back a bit in case Sherlock decided to say something else.

"Err, he's a bit busy at the moment, is there anything I can do for you?"

She paused and John wondered if he heard a sniffle.

"Abby? You ok?"

She sighed. "John—" her voice wobbled distinctively and he cringed, thinking she had heard Sherlock.

"It's ok, don't listen to him. Just distracted. Let me help!" He tried infusing brightness he did not feel into his tone.

"John, it's not Sherlock. Something has happened…"

* * *

Sherlock watched John very carefully. Oh he didn't look over, didn't even look away from where his magnifying glass was inspecting the fibers of the chair he squatted in front of, but that didn't stop him from seeing acutely.

John went silent, and his entire face turned ashen.

"How bad is it?" he murmured, and Sherlock refused to feel the icy grip of fear about his heart. He ceased to move, still and listening fully.

"God, I'm so sorry, Abby, what can I do?" John's eyes sought Sherlock's but he refused to move even an inch.

There was tense silence and Sherlock strained his hearing for her voice.

John seemed to come to a resolve.

"You'll have to go. Have you called in to Barts? …Do that. I'll see what I can do about getting us over there quickly."

There seemed to be a protest.

"Yes, _we_," came his solemn reply. "Of course you're not going alone. Abby, you held me together when my life was falling apart. I'll not abandon you now when you need a friend."

John abruptly looked exhausted and aged as he listened.

"I know you don't want to get off the phone, but you must. You can call me right back, alright? I'll be right here. It's going to be ok." John's face showed that he was probably lying. How could he know if anything would be alright ever again?

Hanging up, he looked to Sherlock, who finally deigned to look at his best friend. He didn't ask.

"Her father's been in a car wreck, doesn't know the extent of it yet, but it bloody well doesn't look good. She needs to get home right now. Do you think Mycroft can help?"

Sherlock paused before giving one brief nod and handing John his phone. "Call him. He'll do what he can or my work on this case stops."

John nodded curtly and began to scroll through his friend's phone before placing a call.

While it rang, John looked back to Sherlock who looked mildly dazed. It occurred to him. "I'm going with her. She shouldn't be alone. You should come, Sherlock." John was used to cluing his friend in to the norms expected in relationships. And, he didn't want to make Sherlock or Mary jealous, but he knew what Abby had given up for him when Sherlock had been dead. He remembered distinctly that, though she would never see it this way, he was decidedly in her debt. He knew his duty to her. No matter what his life looked like at the moment, he would not abandon her to darkness.

"My work is here." John stared at Sherlock the Machine and shook his head. "Don't be an idiot. You have to come." But the hard, dry look that glittered in his ghostly blue eyes gave John pause, and then he had no more time to argue.

"Mycroft, we need your help. Can you get me a jet?"

* * *

Looking back later, Abby wouldn't be able to remember much of the next ten hours. She must have packed a bag, but had no recollection of doing so.

She must have gotten into a sleek black car with Anthea, Mycroft's assistant, but it was just a hazy memory, as from a dream, nothing more than a familiar sensation.

There was a bright, clear flash in her mind, of seeing John and being on a plane, but it wasn't anything more than the sight of her hand clasped tightly in his, gripping it harder than she had ever done before. How long had the flight lasted, while sick turmoil rolled in her gut, ache and worry and fear all threatening to overtake her? She had no idea. Did she sleep? If so her dreams were not altered, but grey wisps of confusion mingled with clear flashes of solid memory.

One thought stuck out in all the loss and fog of her recollections of that trip—_Will I ever see my Daddy alive again?_ Abigail said nothing, but kept waiting for a Feeling, some hint about how it would turn out, anything! Nothing, absolutely nothing did she feel or see. It caused the terror to roll higher as she clenched her teeth to keep from breaking down.

Upon landing, John, still holding Abigail's hand, roused her from her stupor. He had insisted she rest, and in fact had supplied her with a sedative to accomplish it. He suspected she hadn't really slept, although she was mostly immobile the entire trip.

Mycroft's connections were something to be admired, the Gulfstream jet he had procured for them was breathtakingly beautiful—too bad the aesthetics were completely lost on the pair. John could, however, muster himself enough to be grateful that Mycroft had thought of procuring the necessary paperwork for their stay in the States, however long it would be. Abigail was pale and wane, but she had a determined look in her eye as she slowly came to life as they took their bags in hand and left the plane. She looked around as they climbed down the stairs of the craft and said her first words in six hours.

"Why are we in Tallahassee?" she wondered, recognizing the surroundings, "is this the closest airport?"

He nodded. John knew, that although they were in Northern Florida instead of Southern Georgia, where Abby was from, this was the airport closest to the hospital where her father was undergoing surgery. His first view of the states had been through the window moments before; abysmal, grey. This second here, full view of the desolate, tiny tarmac, in this town a small fraction of the size of London was no better. It was deep in the middle of the night, but bright lights shone over them, illuminating the view. The airport only had a few terminals, and was quiet, without much disturbance. They made their way across the airstrip to the door which would lead to a car awaiting them.

The grim silence returned. John knew the heavy weight Abby was feeling. John was used to death, in a way, used to seeing it and stopping it and having it stop him. It was familiar and terrible but there was some macabre comfort he found in walking this path together, one previously oft-tread for the army doctor. He reached down to grip her hand as they made their way past a few quiet shops advertising merchandise for local sports teams and greasy fast food restaurants. Abby's hand felt cold and small and remained limp in his larger, warm one. Looking up, pausing, Abby set her bag's strap higher on her shoulder, and in that moment John saw her age ten years. Her eyes were glazed, tired, and the harsh lights which told them it was three in the morning local time, made her seem haggard and blank at the same time.

"Abby, we're going to get through this. It is going to be alright." She finally met his eyes, and a lone tear slipped down her cheek. John brushed it away with his free hand, the other still clutching hers for dear life. She finally squeezed his hand back, and then threaded her fingers through his own, letting the warmth seep into her bones. Nodding, she bit her lips into a line, gaining some control over her body.

"It feels like a terrible joke, John, it doesn't seem real." He nodded, silent, letting her speak. "I don't even know what to do. I feel so lost."

He drew her into a tight hug, though it was a bit against his own nature and comfort zone, he knew she needed the contact with reality and friendship. "Abby," he said into her hair, "we're going to get through this together. You're not alone. I won't let you stay lost." She nodded, unable to speak for several minutes. She clutched tightly at his jumper, breathing slowly to stay calm. After several minutes, she could speak again.

"Let's get going. I need to see my Daddy."

* * *

It wasn't the worst case John had seen. It was however in his personal top twenty. Abigail's father did not look well. Standing bedside in a post-op recovery room, they were allowed a few minutes with the man. John had not wanted to intrude, but Abby refused to let go of his hand as her mother explained what she knew, which as it turned out, wasn't much. He was alive. Mama had tried to listen to the doctor through a haze of exhaustion and fear and really had very little understanding of her husband's condition as he came out of surgery.

Abby now gripped her father's right hand, nearly the only part of him that wasn't damaged. John took in an assessment, starting at Art's head and going down to his feet. He was sedated because of the severity of his wounds. There were multiple lacerations and abrasions to his face along with a left broken occipital bone, broken left collar bone. John could see a chest tube, so he supposed Art's lung had collapsed at some point. Perhaps it was full of fluid. Hard to tell only by looking. What was obvious was his left femur, which was broken and in traction. John tried not cringe at the incredible pain the man would be in, were he awake.

Abby sat silently for a moment, taking in the horror of the scene. She tried to remain clinically detached as she would in her everyday life, not cold, but professional. Then she tried to draw up a wall as she often saw Sherlock do, a defense from the trauma of seeing her father reduced to broken bones and flesh suspended by machinery. Sherlock would know how to handle this, to resist falling apart. He would have the strength to withstand this hellish moment. Abby made her face to become a blank slate as she had watched Sherlock do countless times, knowing that at the same time he was dropping a steal door over his heart. But his years of practice made it a natural reaction; Abby did not have the same resources to defend herself against the rising tide, the onslaught. The pain and fear and relief and horror she felt all began to swirl into one confusing, draining mess and she failed entirely at protecting herself. She bent her head and began to weep.

* * *

**A/N: Poor Abigail. If only she weren't such an emoter and Sherlock weren't such a sociopath. :) I WONDER WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN! Hope you enjoyed it.**


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